


The Captain's Little Project

by thunderbird_dragon



Series: The WASP Years [4]
Category: Thunderbirds, Thunderbirds are go!
Genre: Gen, Gordon Tracy's Olympics, Gordon Tracy's time in WASP, Olympics, gold medals at Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderbird_dragon/pseuds/thunderbird_dragon
Summary: The Wasp Years - Gordon now just 18 is serving aboard the WASP sub Triton when it is badly damaged.  As it limps into dry dock, weeks away, it and it's crew are vulnerable to attack from the insurrectionists.So the Captain has a plan to keep morale up and his crew focused on something other than the dangers of journey home.His plan?To get a member of his crew fit for the Olympics.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PART FOUR (not 1 - sorry don't know how to change that!)  
> This is entirely a work of my imagination, trying to fit everything into young Gordon's life before International Rescue according to the Thunderbird cannon. It's part four (or five if you're still hoping that part 2 will turn up!) of The WASP Years and if I'm allowed a favourite, this is it!  
> I've said this to each part, it works best with Thunderbirds the Original, but with a stretch of the imagination and the ages, it still works well with TAG but you have to believe Gordon is older that TAG lead you to believe he may be - I really wish they'd come out and give us cannon for TAG ages!  
> Anyway - for the purpose of this series, I've written Gordon as 20/21 when he joins International Rescue.  
> Thanks for reading!

_**The WASP Years -  The Captain's Little Project** _

 

There wasn’t one amongst the other 185 souls aboard the WASP submersible WSM Triton that was not fully behind their golden boy.

For the past few months Lieutenant Gordon Tracy had suppressed his disappointment that, despite all that the service had promised him, all that he had promised his family and himself for years, the opportunity of a place in the Olympic swim team just wasn’t possible due to the insurrection.  There was no way he could be released from duty to go, but just as importantly, there was no way that he would have left his aquanaut teams and his sub to be there either.  The young Lieutenant knew his place was beside them, currently assigned mine sweeping duties for the World Navy, dangerous work which built such deep bonds and respect between those that undertook it, that he just couldn’t leave.

Then, a chance encounter with insurrectionist had taken out their port engines and the Triton was forced to limp into dry dock for repairs, a journey of over three weeks and an estimated time for repairs of 2 months. 

To keep sub-wide morale up, the Captain had devised a project for them all - the training, coaching and generally readiness of a possible Olympian!  And suddenly, out of the blue – or was it the turquoise of WASP – one Gordon Cooper Tracy was going to the Olympics after all!

The Captain engaged the assistance of the Admiralty to get him a place on the team, regardless of his lack of recent pre-Olympic trials for selections purposes.  They were lucky, another swimmer had been forced to drop out and WASP used their not so dainty clout to reserve it for Gordon.

The buzz aboard was amazing, everyone got behind the project, and they put him through hell.  Not that he complained, hell was what was going to be needed if he was to have any chance at all. Months at sea with no formal training was no place to start from.

The submersible worked on the traditional 18 hours day, 6 hours duty time, 6 hours sleep and 6 hours study/down time.  And it was the latter 6 hours where he was put through his paces.  Underwater to begin with, paced against the limping Triton herself.  He was constantly left behind of course, but determination and just plain guts kept him going, that and the maddeningly keen teams that swam with him. 

They let him finally indulge himself in his rather unique butterfly style of dive propulsion, frowned upon by WASP instructors in preference of the standard scissor style, but perfect for the building of the right muscle structure for the big race.

The statisticians amongst the crew started working on swim rates, rest, intakes and uptakes, contacting the highest coaches available to the US team for which he would be swimming.  Not that the very international crew aboard the Triton really cared which team he was technically on – he’d be swimming for WASP, of which they were all members!  A schedule was carved in stone and everyone aboard became aware of it, encouraging, checking and just being involved.  Crew from the lowliest newbe to the Captain waited for the daily reports on times achieved and distances covered, heat rates and muscle development.  There was so much attention that it was mind blowing for the poor lad.

But he kept himself focused.

There had been _‘the’_ chat:   called to the Captain’s stateroom, (the pokey little cabin less than 7’ by 4’ with the grandest name imaginable).  There, the Captain had explained his plan, how it would help keep everyone’s minds off the dangerous journey home, a vulnerable target for anyone who would prey on them, they weren’t totally helpless but even so….  Then, once in dry dock, morale would be at its lowest, while men were left almost idle with the insurrection erupting in pockets across the world. 

Given the double opportunity of serving his sub _and_ going to the Olympics, Gordon had been willing to get behind the plan 200%.

The galley crew had be doing their research too.  The diet of a champion was found four times a day, regardless of the lowness in the pantry from their long tour of duty.  But that was a stretch too far for him.  He took quite some persuading to eat the last of the protein rich foods whilst everyone else was eating frozen ravioli. Eventually, he was pushed, coaxed and plain bullied into the diet by everyone aboard.

It was needed, he knew it, but it still didn’t seem right.

Engineering joined him in weight training and missile bay crews on the treadmills, all ranks, everyone, involved in some way.

Once in the dry dock, the real work began – there was no access to a pool, but they had the whole sea outside the dockyard quay to train him in.  The training schedule increased with the surface swim work and bets were laid daily as to if he would still swim despite the heavy swells or stormy icy seas. But of course, he swam regardless, he and his team were WASP, born for all weathers, accustomed to all seas.

And no matter how exhausted he may feel after a session, the buoyancy of the crew kept him going.

 _But then_ , he’d get the lectures about exhaustion and the schedule would be tailored to avoid it.  There just wasn’t anybody would didn’t have a task, a role to play or who wasn’t interested in the Captain’s little project – it was what kept them going.

As for the Olympics themselves, three of those who had trained with him in the water, accompanied him to Peru, the rest were all watching the event intently.  Where ever you went on board, small screens glowed with the preliminaries, the Captain happy to offer dispensations for all to stay involved. 

Hell, even the Admiralty had taken them off watch for the big day itself.

The tension was tangible – from bow to stern, hush voices could be heard just a little above the sounds from their screens.

The Captain had taken a tour.  In the missile bays, where the crews stood the moment they were aware of his presence, he merely watched the screen with them, chatted about their golden boy’s chances. 

In the after battery again he spoke with rank and file, everyone of them had some opinion, everyone of them happy to discuss it.

He was aware that the galley were preparing a celebration meal now that the stores were replenished – he worried about that, what if they hadn’t done enough to get the lieutenant ready?  What if he failed?

Continuing into the officer’s mess, another tiny space, grandly named, the Captain sat for a while next to his most junior ensign, watching the race prior to the big one. 

The tension was mounting.

On the Con, the signals team, who had spent the week tuning their newly installed updates, now sat round glued to their own screens.

“How’s it going now?”

“Just about to prepare,” A junior rating pointed at the small rectangle, “Look, there’s our boy!”

He was pointing to a senior officer and calling him ‘our boy’, the Captain smiled at this, letting it go.  For the duration he had been everyone’s boy!  

Somewhere in that audience would be his own family.  A father who had the right to call him ‘his boy’ and rightly so, for no matter what happened in the next few moments, he should be proud of his son.  For without the boy’s sheer determination and gracious attitude to what they had put him through over the last few months, then the Triton would not be in the shape she was.  With the greatest crew all working as the greatest team.  Once repairs were finalised in the next day or two, the Triton would return to the sea a stronger, happier sub than she had ever been.

The pressure was building further, the Captain could hardly bear it.

Quietly, he took himself out of the Con, up the gangway to the conning tower and out onto the dockside.  No-one noticed, no-one looked up from their intent gaze on the screens with the bright turquoise water of the Olympic pool.

He paced.

The sounds filtering up through the open hatches and conning tower changed in waves, silence followed by a muttering, then some cheering – had his lieutenant mounted the blocks?

A solid wave of a cheer surged out through every hatches, the start?

Had he made a good entry?  Another surge of noise – possibly yes, then.  Oh!  The Captain couldn’t take this, it was worse than facing a barrage from the insurrectionists!  He paced faster.  If anyone was paying any attention to him, he would have looked comical, but he doubted anyone was even looking.  The whole dockyard had got interested in the golden boy of the Triton.

The hubbub rose from the sub – he couldn’t understand any of it, it was just general noise.

Then an almighty cheer – a good turn then!

A good split time?

Surreally, he spotted a girl running towards him from the dockyard building, a tiny ensign, with an elegant run and a turn of speed she should be proud of.

“Captain, sir,” She halted in front of him, out of breath but still standing to attention for him. “Message from the Admiralty, your comms were down, sir.”

“Yes, thank you, yes we are aware - last few updates being downloaded, we should be up by this evening.”  He took the envelope from her – orders - he recognised them immediately, even though he seldom received them in paper form anymore.  “Thank you.” 

“Sir, I wondered if I might ask, how’s the lieutenant doing?”

The hubbub had increased, by percentages, higher and higher and higher to such a point that the Captain thought it couldn’t get any louder. 

And then…

The noise was deafening, even from out on the dockside – fit to split the sides of the Triton.

“I think our boy may have just won – slip up on the conning tower there, the officer of the watch has a screen, you can see for yourself!”

The girl did as she was bidden and waved down at the Captain, “A record time too, Captain!”

The Captain lifted his face to the sky – of course he would have gotten a record time – he’s WASP.

Before boarding the Triton again, he opened the envelope – orders to re-join the fleet, and the Captain smiled.

His project was a success, his crew was at the highest possible morale he could imagine and he had orders to return to active duty with a smartly repaired and updated Triton – life for a WASP Captain just didn’t get better than that!

 


End file.
